


cracks in my heart

by dancer4813



Series: the living and the dead (are one in the same) [2]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Cass is not okay, Cass needs a hug, Flashbacks, Panic Attacks, Percy is less than helpful as usual, Sweet Pelor someone please give her a hug, Tal'dorei Campaign, spoilers for Episode 101, technically canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-17 10:00:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11273193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancer4813/pseuds/dancer4813
Summary: Percy comes to talk to Cassandra, before and after they go to Ank'harel. Unfortunately, his visits are less than helpful, and some demons still haven't been laid to rest.How has her life come to this?





	cracks in my heart

**Author's Note:**

> I'm gonna need to write something happy for these kids at some point. 
> 
> Also, I don't care how much Cass and Percy wouldn't actually interact in canon - she needs a hug, damnit.  
>  ~~Spoiler alert: She doesn't get a hug in this fic either~~

Over the past year, Percy had gotten much better at telling Cassandra about things. Especially things she might find contention with or reason to worry about, thank Pelor.

Vox Machina as a whole seemed to settle down, travelling much less than they had been previously. Vax’ildan and Keyleth had moved out together to Zephra, and the others had, generally, set up in Whitestone. Percy spent more time out of the castle than in over the first few months, helping build Vex’ahlia’s new house, or wandering town, getting to know it again after five years of being absent. But when he did come up to the castle, he miraculously found time to help with paperwork and discussions in the council, which was more than he had been doing.

Cassandra had started to get used to seeing him in the halls or around town, and was happy to see the dark circles under his eyes growing less pronounced, and his mind, apparently, becoming more at ease.

Her own mind and heart were healing as well, Cassandra found.

She no longer flinched when passing certain rooms in the castle or felt the need to lock herself in her room every night; the halls were quiet like a morning spent watching a sunrise instead of an evening lost in a snowstorm. She started to find herself enjoying the sun on her face instead of dreading the need to go back inside, and slowly (ever so slowly) she was starting to fill back out again, fitting into her mother’s old dresses instead of the ones Lady Briarwood had specially tailored for her slimmer figure once Cassandra had lost the baby fat on her bones.

Meals became easier to get down, and the cooks made such lovely desserts that she found herself finishing off full plates of scones and cookies when they were brought up to her. And when the Slayer’s Cake, a business pursuit in lieu of Vox Machina’s usual pursuits, got started up, she quite happily offered to taste any sweets they brought her, making sure they were “up to par”. Percival thought it amusing that she liked the bear claws more than the “profiderolos”, but she had always preferred heartier fare to lighter pastries with cream and excessive sugar.

(Ludwig had thought her crazy once, when she had declined the strawberry pie he’d requested from the cooks for his birthday dessert on account of it being “too sweet”. He’d told their parents that she was obviously possessed by some demon, but Cassandra remembered her mother laughing and shaking her head.

Johanna had said something to Ludwig as well, something about the tastes of de Rolo women, but the words were lost to time, and Cassandra had never felt a strong enough need or desire to remember them.)

But, as all good things did, it seemed like Vox Machina’s rest period was coming to an end, first with the Trickfoots coming to visit, then Taryon being taken back home, spurring a surprise trip to Wildmount.

And they only stayed one night until they were travelling to Ank’harel, on the complete opposite side of the world.

“It’s almost like old times,” she muttered, not bothering to keep her voice down when Percival came into her study to talk.

Percy, to his credit, didn’t seem offended, and instead hummed in agreement.  

“One of our friends came to us with a proposition,” Percy explained, though Cassandra finally knew him well enough to catch the hesitation in his voice.

“Is this a real friend?” she asked dryly, taking a sip of the tea Trish had brought her. “Or  are they more of a Seeker Asum character?”

Percy blinked, face tightening, but didn’t respond to the barb like she had expected.

Cassandra raised an eyebrow. She hadn’t expected to hit the nail on the head.

“Do I have to be worried, brother?” she asked after a moment of silence. Ignorance had caused only more trouble while the Conclave was around, regardless of what Percy had told her to the contrary, and she would really rather know what was going on around her city.

“You shouldn’t have to be, no.”

“Well, of _course_ I shouldn’t have to be – it’s my city!” she exclaimed.

Cassandra took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart, but it wasn’t quite enough.

“Whitestone is in no immediate danger,” Percy said, and a cursory search of his face told her that he, at the very least, believed his own words.

“Oh, not _immediate_ , thank goodness,” she snipped, lowering her cup hard enough that it rattled in the saucer. “I’ll just wait for the trouble to come then, while you all seek it out.”

“Cassandra-“

“Tell me I’m wrong,” she shot back, which shut him up.

And, after a moment: “I’m waiting, Percy…”

She felt like Lady Briarwood, waiting for one of the captured townsfollk to answer her questions, but Cassandra tried not to think about that.

“That’s what I thought,” she said with a sigh, “Though I suppose there’s nothing I can do to dissuade you from whatever ridiculous and dangerous shenanigans you’ll be off to next.”

“No, there isn’t,” he said, and well, that was that.

“Well, I thank you for letting me know, at the very least. Please inform me of any updates, if you can. Is there anyone who I should contact so you’re not scrabbling to find them when you return?”

“Anyone who has worked on the ziggurat, or really anyone we trust,” Percy said, as if he didn’t know trust was in such low supply for such a high demand. “Allura, Eskil… And anyone they have worked with on the problem. It’s giving me a bad feeling.”

“And a mysterious temple under our city with a potentially lethal siphon hasn’t been worrisome over the past year, brother? Good to know that your priorities are in order.” It wouldn’t be much trouble to send a message to Allura and ask her to contact Eskil – the Sending Stones certainly made that easier.

“Indeed,” Percy said dryly, though his eyes sparkled, and stood a bit straighter.

“Indeed,” she scoffed, rolling her eyes. “I’ll do my best, and let you know the results when you next return, shall I?”

“That would be wonderful, yes.”

“Then if you would leave me to the rest of my work, I would thank you very much.”

“I’ll do that.”

As he closed the door behind him, Cassandra sighed and shook her head, brushing some hair out of her face and behind her ears. If she’d said it once, she’d said it a hundred times. Vox Machina would be the death of them all.

 

* * *

 

It’s absurdly late the next evening when Percival rushes into her office, the rest of Vox Machina behind him, but Cassandra is just getting started on her nightly tea after a long day of getting Eskil Ryndarien set up in the castle once again. The man could certainly be a pain in the arse when he wanted to be.

But Percy doesn’t calm down when he sits down across from her, and when he produces the flask and Vex’ahlia asks about the ziggurat and the rest of Vox Machina leave… Well, she knows something is not good.

So she adds a splash of the whiskey to her tea and listens through his stuttered explanations about the new ziggurat and about the people they found there.

But then he pauses, and not for dramatic effect, but for concern and fear and a hundred other emotions that play across his face even as she tries to sort him out.

“...their leader was Delilah Briarwood.”

Cassandra’s mind goes horribly, painfully blank. Except for the name. The name is emblazoned on the forefront of her mind in bold script, in flashing color too ostentatious to ignore (as if she could have forgotten).

Delilah.

She feels her whole body tense and then relax, and almost imagines herself crumpling to the ground under the sheer weight of the revelation he just dropped on her.

Fuck.

The teacup crashes to the ground instead of her, and she feels the heat of freshly-brewed tea through her boots, which draws her back to reality.

“...some plane of existence. But some form of her, whether it’s undead or otherwise... We’ll need to put it down again.”

“Yes, we do,” Cassandra says, though the words feel hollow in her mouth and her tongue feels like lead and she feels the nails of her hands digging sharply into the meat of her palms-

“I wanted you to hear it from me. There will be no running this time.”

“No running,” she echoes, and while her gaze hasn’t moved, she sees him before her in the snow-covered forest, the blue of his coat disappearing into the trees as red and white consume her vision.

“Not from me,” he says, with the sincerity of his experience weighing heavy on his shoulder, like Julius had always done when making a promise.

Gods the tiniest sliver of her wants to hug him for that, but her skin has already started to creep at the old memories lurking just beneath the surface, like they’re crawling up her bones to seep inside her and cover her mouth and hold her head to the side so her neck is free for the taking.

But Cassandra pulls herself back, because _godsdamnit_ she is a de Rolo.

“You’ll take care of her?” she asks, her fists clenching spasmodically at her sides, and she raises her eyes to his.

“This is the end of her,” he says, and she knows it is a promise, or at least as much as he _can_ promise. “I will be there to see it.”

Her head shakes before she can stop it, before she can stop that devotion to _that_ _woman_ from welling up in her chest.

“She’s escaped death once already, who knows how many times before?” her mouth says, playing advocate for the demons lurking in her mind, but she recovers, pushing past them as her fingernails dig deep enough into her palm to cause pinpricks of pain. “You _have_ to end it.”

And he tries to assure her – there is no doubt that he tries, but it’s not enough, because it has never been enough, and even with everything that Vox Machina is, with all their power – having slain dragons and the darkest of demons…

“Shatter the soul, whatever it takes _…_ _End_ her, brother.”

She wants to blink away the tears that are starting to well in her eyes, but it’s getting to be too much – the crawling of her skin, the dryness of her throat, the tightness of her collar, the cold running through her veins-

“I know,” he says.

“I shall,” he says.

And she knows he will _try_ , but Cassandra also knows promises, and she knows family, and she knows that trying is sometimes not enough. Her hand stretches out to take the flask, the amber liquid unfamiliar, but strong, and has a sudden, violent urge to laugh at how Vesper would have reprimanded her for drinking any sort of alcohol.

Cassandra remembers having a glass of wine at every meal with Lord and Lady Briarwood, and so she knocks back a swig as quickly as she can manage, the sharp burn down her throat temporarily drowning out the rest of her senses and bringing her to a place of blessed oblivion.

“I’m sorry,” he says, drawing her back to the present.

Cassandra has never had enough alcohol to forget what had happened while she was drinking it, but she has a sudden urge to drown her sorrows in drink, so that she might wake up the next morning with a headache, yes, but without the memory of _this_ , this mind-numbing ache in her chest that seems to tear through her from throat to knees. Of a name whose title still haunts her mind and her home.

_Lady Delilah,_

_Lady Cassandra_.

She hands the flask back to him before she can’t control herself any longer, and as she takes in a deep breath of air, she feels the prickling on her skin intensify, like so many insects burrowing deep into her flesh past skin and bone and blood to the heart of her.

“I need a moment. Go, please,” she bids him, but he’s Percy and he just _stands there_ and has the absolute _gall_ to say that they will once again be looked up to, that they will need to be strong, that _he has faith that she can be_ , and it turns out that those words are her limit.

She realizes this as her stomach rebels against the alcohol and she takes a shuddering breath, swallowing, trying to hold it back in lieu of decorum and her pride.

Percy has faith.

Cannot disappoint him.

Don’t let them see it.

You’re supposed to be strong.

But he finally gets it and he leaves and she’s standing there, hands trembling, collar choking her, even the unforgiving constriction of her dress restricting her, and she feels a convulsion race through her, doubling her over, hands hitting her chair. A second comes soon after, and while nothing comes up, it brings tears to her eyes, hot and fast.

She fumbles for some bowl, some vase, but she’s never been one for decorative pieces.

On the third she sees the whiskey again, and it burns even more on the way back up.

(There’s a moment where she’s glad she was too busy to have more than a light meal for dinner.)

Ears ringing and tears streaming, arms weak and legs already giving out beneath her, she fumbles in her pocket for a handkerchief, for any sort of cloth, but just as she finds it, fingers groping for the swatch of fabric, the smell hits her nose. She stiffens, hoping she can hold it back, but after only a moment she gags, retching again, and she lets what little liquid that’s left in her stomach splatter onto the floor.

Pushing herself up, Cassandra gasps for breath and a trail of cool saliva swings back to hit her chin. She snaps her mouth shut, shaking out the handkerchief, patting her face dry.

Cassandra feels proper for all of about two seconds, but then, legs trembling, she finds herself on the floor, leaning against the side of her desk as she simultaneously tries to understand _why_ and tries not to think about it.

She can remember the feel of the blade in her hands, the weight of Delilah’s body on it as she struck the woman through her chest.

She can remember the almost orgasmic rush of joy when she saw the necromancer’s limbs disappear into the acid, her face melting away.

She remembers Delilah’s voice crooning to her from the side of her bed, a couple weeks after Percy’s escape, when she’d retired early from dinner with the excuse of not feeling well.

(“Oh, don’t worry dearest, I know you miss your family right now, but perhaps, with time, Sylas and I can be your new family, your new parents. How does that sound?”)

She remembers the anger she felt at the words, fierce and fiery in her chest.

She remembers bursting into tears that nearly made her sick, and Delilah petting her hair affectionately, always brushing that stray lock out of her face.

Cassandra recoils from the phantom touch and slams her head into the desk behind her, a blinding explosion of pain chasing away the memories. She bites back a cry – Trish was taking a well-deserved night off, but with Vox Machina in the castle she could never be sure who was listening.

“Fuck,” she grits out, and once she verbally paves the way the rest of her anger tries to follow. “Fuck fuck fucking _shit_ son of a- uh!”

She slams her fist behind her into the desk and instantly regrets the pain that shoots through her wrist. Gasping for breath, blinking hard, Cassandra collects herself for a moment, but realizes just how little of her there is left to collect.

Cassandra gasps out a laugh that quickly turns into a stifled sob, but despite the whirlwind of the last few moments she already feels like her head is hollow, like a lake in her skull has run out and there’s only mud and muck left, quickly drying to dust.

Her mind shifts to priorities. Number one of which, according to Percival, is the ziggurat. Increased guards, increased personage… She has already garnered aid from Eskil, recruited him and his associates to study the siphon over the ziggurat some more, and she’d made contact with Allura as well, but she had said her place on the council was keeping her busy.

Knowing Vox Machina, they would be gone come morning, and then it would be herself, Eskil Ryndarien, some arcanists, the staff, and the Pale Guard in the castle.

 _The guard hadn’t been enough the last time_ , her brain reminds her, _oh_ so helpfully.

Allura had told her specifically, “Call for me if there’s an emergency”.

The only question left is if such a thing really categorizes as such.

(An evil necromancer is back from the dead. There is trouble on the way, yet again. Does it qualify? Is it _bad enough_ to ask for help?)

Cassandra hates what her life has become, that those are the sorts of questions she needs to ask herself.  

She makes her decision and stands, pushing herself to her feet, then steadies herself on her desk when black rushes across her vision. Almost feeling faint, she pushes away distant memories of life being sucked from her throat in lieu of the mission at hand.

First, clean up.

Second, call Allura.

Getting linens that she doesn’t mind soiling is little trouble, and Cassandra is thankful for the way the stone floor under her knees distracts her from the way bile wants to creep back up her throat. The broken china is buried underneath scrap papers in a rubbish bin, the liquids are soaked up, the tile is scrubbed clear. But all too soon she’s done, and apart from the acidic smell that lingers, none would know of her lapse in decorum.

She cannot disappoint. She must be strong.

Cassandra makes a quick stop in her bedroom to brush through her unkempt hair, then goes to the kitchen to retrieve another cup of tea – herbal, with motherwort and vervain, with a decent helping of honey.

Using the servants’ stairs so she is less likely to be interrupted (and, indeed, she meets no one along the way), Cassandra arrives at her study. Realizing just how late the hour is, however, she can’t help but wonder if the message to Allura should wait until the morning.

She feels sharp pinpricks of tarnished memories on her neck, and the murmur of honeyed words in her ears.

Cassandra takes another sip of her tea and sits down to plan her message.

_Allura. Things have progressed faster than Vox Machina anticipated. You are needed posthaste. Please, whenever you are able, come to Whitestone._

_~~Don’t worry about rushing~~ _

_~~Not much has changed but~~ _

_~~We need someone…~~ _

Eventually she gives up and accepts a shorter message, feeling ridiculous at the number of times she reads it through. She takes another sip of her tea when she’s finished, fishing the Sending Stone from her drawer and turning it in her hand for a moment, before concentrating and casting the spell.

There’s a moment of silence after she finishes speaking, Cassandra’s mind immediately jumping to the worst possible conclusion, but after another moment, a drowsy Alura responds-

“I suspect they got back safely then. Don’t worry, Cassandra, Kima and I will take care of things on our end. See you tomorrow afternoon.”

Breathing a quiet sigh of relief, Cassandra feels her eyes tear up for a moment. She then reassures herself and dabs at her cheek with her sleeve. Stowing the stone away once more, she takes another sip of her tea, the amber liquid clear and dark, the herbs already having their intended effect as her eyelids start to grow heavy.

And while it doesn’t take long for her to end up in bed, once she’s there her thoughts have trouble taking their rest. Shadows loom around her like they haven’t in over a year, and the spring wind against the window feels like a foreboding presence, ever looming.

Finally, after almost an hour of waiting, of tensing up just as she’s about to fall into sleep and bouncing back awake, she rises and moves to her wardrobe, rummaging through the drawers at the bottom to find the doll from her youth that her mother had made in her likeness.

Cassandra stares at herself in stuffed form, carefully embroidered eyes and a neatly sewn dress faded from years of lack of care. She traces the stitches and tries to remember her mother sewing – the careful hesitations, the clean needlework done thread by thread, stitch by stich.

She feels a different kind of overwhelmed for a moment and cradles the doll to her chest as she attempts to bite back the heat behind her eyes, but there is something about being alone in one’s room that allows sadness to flow freely, and Cassandra knows that all too well.

Tears soak her pillow when she lays her head down once again, but she finally drifts off as she holds the doll close, fingers eventually stilling against its hair, fine as her own, as her breathing calms in the early early hours of the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to see me recommend fanfics, cry with me about the cast and Cassandra especially, or watch me spaz out during the episodes check out my main blog: [dancer4813](http://www.dancer4813.tumblr.com), or my writing tumblr: [dancerwrites](http://www.dancerwrites.tumblr.com).


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